UPHEAVAL
A violent change in the wilderness.
Even hibernating souls are awakened!
Multitudes of sirens fade out of sync
As ashen remains of the forest coat moist skin.
Even hibernating souls are awakened!
Unable to escape the ultimate upheaval
As ashen remains of the forest coat moist skin,
Thickening into dense-gray-salty-mummified-clay,
Unable to escape the ultimate upheaval.
Let memories of joy circulate through limp bodies
Thickening into dense-gray-salty-mummified-clay
Melding with H-2-O laden clouds swirling above.
Let memories of joy circulate through limp bodies,
Multitudes of piercing sirens fade out of sync
Melding with H-2-O laden clouds swirling above.
A violent change in the wilderness.
Leslayann Schecterson
POEM FOR THE APOCALYSE
In the end of days what you need is a good first line.
To distract you from the truth with its own truth.
The way pain can sometimes distract from pain.
The way beauty can sometimes distract from pain.
The way a good bedtime story can light up the dark
side of an entire planet, given a little room
with a bed in the corner, a few right words, a child
listening. In the end of days what you need is a good
beginning. Something hopeful and trembling like a tongue.
Something open and unselfconscious like a mouth—
listening to the words, and the music of the words.
Something steeply rocking like a ship, or a sleep, heavy,
floating, viable, smelling of saltwater and infinite possibility.
Paul Hostovsky
ODE TO PROPOFOL
Last night I dreamt of my father
lying in his hospital bed, a tech
separating his wedding ring from his finger
as my siblings debate with his doctors
and fail to defeat time and truth.
Tomorrow, it’s my turn for the ether,
plus a Milk of Amnesia chaser, after
following doctor’s orders, including wearing no jewelry.
My wedding ring’s in a jewelry box
amid some other time-worn totems I’ve gathered.
All the reassurances of tomorrow’s event being
low risk, routine, and not a worry,
are worn brakes against doom and dread
yet still resist any slippage into calm
or confidence there’s a blissful common end.
Except when all tenses lose their power
and logic-defying metaphors of rings extend far
beyond the fog and muck of memory
filling any void between love and joy
existing as quanta, becoming all there is.
Rob Friedman
THE END
Standing here in the vestibule
(a word from my grandparents)
I look out the front door
at the ornate, imposing gate
that I have never entered,
fearing that without a guide
I would be refused entry,
and fearing that once within
I would meet people indifferent
to good and evil, to life, to me.
I won't enter that gate today,
though I can see the distant river
and it makes me wonder about
what I will find there.
Certainly I will enter, another day,
and there is some joy in knowing
that it will all end,
the knowing,
rather than the waiting,
rather than the uncertainty.
Charles Michaels
LOST AND FOUND
The diagnosis
was not the end
of everyone's world
but the end
of mine.
Glioblastoma,
it said, revealing
why my husband
could not remember
what day it was
or the names
of our children.
I served my beloved
encouragement
on china plates
as the tumor slowly
devoured his brain
until the morning
he didn't wake
and our bed became
a quilted grave.
I buried my life
beside him
and declared I would never
love again.
But a decade later,
a chance acquaintance
unearthed it
with a spade of hope
and created for me
a universe.
Susan Spaeth Cherry
RIGHTS OF NATURE
How might one appraise this meadow
stretching from subdivision to subdivision,
from woods to woods, an undeveloped
corridor where deer and other migratory
species must travel in order to survive.
Especially now, with climate change
changing everything. Maybe dollars can’t
measure such a meadow, except in the mind
of the developer. Folks in the subdivisions
walk this land that once was home
to hunter-gatherers and keeps their record
in bedrock mortars where native women
ground acorns for food; where swans float
on a pond where the people walk to ease
their minds, forgetting – for a little while –
the noise of traffic, everyday problems
at work and home, the bedlam of politics
and greed. Even now, great oaks leaf-out
in spring, and the egret stands silent
and patient on shoreline. How does one
appraise all this? How soon –
if we don’t save it – will it be gone.
Taylor Graham
APOCALYPSE?
Does the end really need to be
Bombs and blood to qualify
As an apocalypse?
There are many forms of violence
That ultimately lead to the end of
Something as, or more, precious
Than that infinitesimal nano moment
In which we have occupied the planet
We still see as the center of all things
Despite what science claims and
Satellites confirm — about the speck
Of rock on which we perch
Is the revelation that we are
As stupid as we’re smart
Not as consequential as a war?
That we are neither good nor bad
But an embarrassing concoction
Of innocence and evil
Brilliance and buffoonery
Empathy and hate
Blind and visionary
The irony of imperfection
Paradox of purpose
Illusiveness of aspiration
That our puny brains cannot accept
Reality, but strive, instead to
Replace facts with fantasy
When doing so corrodes the very bones
On which our insignificance depends
And, one day, will surely be the end of us
Frank Kelly
CASSANDRA
SHE
knew the truth
sent it out on Facebook
tweeted to the world
it was replicated
thousands of times
made the evening shows
BUT
it was called fake news
sham a shifty sermon
by evil men bent on
destruction of the land
a lie so big no one had
ever seen its like before
SO
everyone breathed a sigh
of gratitude went about
their lives as usual gathered
in large crowds drank till
midnight slept till dawn
dreaming of past glory
AND
woke to screams burning
houses wind and storm
coastal towns under water
food scarce as foreign
hoards trampled the wheat
over and over shouting
WHORE
they left her in a pool of
blood in front of the stock
exchange as the towers fell
and the citizens were butchered
the dazed rounded up to be
sacrificed to the conquering gods.
Rob Miller
IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE END
It was said that language was always evolving
Unless of course it was a dead language
Which was still a language
Now, it is a part of our past - spoken and written
No longer an affront to our modern society
Risen from guttural grunts, cave walls, stone tablets
Paper, pen, electronic devices and so-called advanced technology
Such as email, smartphones, texting and “instant” messaging
While those before us were all looking down
The great ones were looking forward
No, it did not happen overnight
There was resistance by the “talkers”
Who soon found how lonely the world can be
How unbending for those who did not join
The DER- Dissolution-Evolution-Revolution
No need for books or any written or verbal communication
The government provides
Once a chicken in every pot
Now an ICD in every tot!
Intra-Cerebral Devices
Our internal databanks
And HANs – our Human Anatomy Network System
Keeping us all connected
Synchronized and voiceless
Instantaneous and flawless
No breakdowns, no misunderstandings
History, knowledge and all its updates
All the same, all supplied
Destruction before dissent!
We no longer thirst for knowledge
We are the quenched
We are the silent ones
We are the Omegas
Terri J. Guttilla
Apocalypse Then
The people were observant of the night sky
and that night they could hardly believe their eyes.
At first the night was alight with sharp spirits
as it always was on a clear night,
but then the moon swallowed the sun
and the spirits burned.
Now even the sun was burning,
burning out
in a fire that will leave
nothing but darkness
a darkening prelude
to a world without light
a world without life,
an apocalypse.
Lynn White
IN THE LAST DAYS
Paul has painted
an interesting picture
of the end of the world,
if you ask me.
(Which nobody did,
I’ll grant you.)
“But understand this,
that in the last days
there will come times of difficulty,”
he says.
And then he tells it like it is.
“For people will be…”
(Just check out this list.
And shudder and squirm a little.)
“Lovers of self
Lovers of money
Proud
Arrogant
Abusive
Disobedient to their parents
Ungrateful
Unholy
Heartless
Unappeasable
Slanderous
Without self-control
Brutal
Not loving good
Treacherous
Reckless
Swollen with conceit
Lovers of pleasure
rather than lovers of God
Having the appearance of godliness, but denying its power.
Avoid such people."
And so it is
That I find myself
Alone.
In the dark.
Avoided.
At least by those convinced they’re
good enough to do the avoiding.
And that I’m “such people”
(Which I am, let’s just admit.)
And who isn’t, really?
Did you even read the list?
And while Paul has me there—
Avoided, huddling alone in the dark
Peter has me
Exposed.
“But the day of the Lord will come
like a thief,
and then the heavens
will pass away
with a roar,
and the heavenly bodies
will be burned up
and dissolved,
and the earth
and the works
that are done on it
will be exposed.”
And so I huddle under my fig leaves
Seeking shelter.
Or covering.
Or mercy.
Or something good amid all this bad.
And await the Last Days.
Hiding in God
From God.
“Surely goodness
Surely mercy
Will follow me
All the days of my life
And I will dwell
In the house
Of the Lord
Forever”
Well, maybe.
One can only huddle
And hope.
And fall on grace.
Laurie Sitterding
IS THIS THE END?
John the Divine’s Apocalyptic Queen,
Crowned with stars, descends from
The dark dome over Patmos.
Over in India, Shiva is busy
Destroying. The monsoons are stronger
Than last year, flooding villages,
Sweeping away all the leftovers,
The weeds, chaff and bones from
Last season’s cycle of decay.
Meanwhile, in the Gulf of Mexico,
The first hurricane of the summer
Emerges from the warm waters,
Links up with the swirling tides
And the killer wind, heading like
An arrow toward the Big Island.
Pele is already there, spewing more
Fire from her deep intestines
Beneath a million years of lava,
While in a thatched shack on
Molokai, a young woman, after forty
Hours of labor, and pain beyond
Anything Shiva has ever engendered,
Pushes her baby girl into her ancient Auntie’s
Wrinkled hands at the moment when
The old and foolish men in Washington
Fade away.
Is this the end, or is it an explosion
Of joyful light?
Rose Anna Higashi
THIS IS MY FINAL OFFER
I couldn’t wait until the end of time
To tell you what I really had to say,
So this is it: the reason and the rhyme
Condensed into an ancient form, this way.
You need to know that I am slow to speak.
I grope for words and need to concentrate,
Before just blurting out unfiltered speech—
And that’s why time is of the essence. Wait
For light to dawn, and sunrise soon will glow.
We don’t need rapture or apocalypse
To see the truth, but first we need to know
That truth is how we see. For step by step,
In time we shall approach our journey’s end—
And finish when we know how to begin.
Lee Evans
GOTTERDAMMERUNG REDUX
There is no place left to hide now
All the streets are boarded up
All our leaders learned to kow-tow
On their bones the vultures sup.
Once a man could bid good riddance
Now there's no place left to hide
Nor a place to eke a pittance.
Where might souls of peace abide?
Man could aim to follow tau
Up a mountain, all alone.
There is no place left to hide now
To escape The Empire drone
Mapped the world and daily spied on -
All our secrets known somehow.
Gone the freedom once relied on
There is no place left to hide now
l'envoi "the words of the prophets
are written on the subway walls"
and there is no place to hide
in every stanza.
Timea Deinhardt
OWNING MY APOCALYPSE
“It was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.” - Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
Fractured. Hollow. I follow Kurt’s footsteps,
listen to Marlow’s bodhisattva mantra:
inner evils saunter alongside nobler
instincts where fallen angels morph, transform
into ghoulish wraiths draped in ink-black
cotton robes linger then promise deliverance,
their faces hidden yet ever compelling,
especially since cataclysmic aftershocks
following my wife’s untimely demise
found no solace in religious salvation no comfort
from support groups, no faith in reincarnation,
no belief in Cosmic Mysteries or a Second Coming.
“We live as we dream - alone. While the dream disappears, the life continues painfully.”*
A fiery funnel contorts, convulses,
twists, and curls beneath me like a
mushroom cloud that crowns God’s creations;
reddish-brown nitrogen oxide color
the horizon; missel launch pads vomit
radioactive fallout like Baal belching after
feeding on poisons, gas, dust, and devastation
through Babylonian lips—coughing, expelling
inner jolts of unbridled energy that seem to foster
and then fester baser thoughts amid loneliness
occasionally lit by yesterdays’ memories
that neither question my actions nor judge my grief.
“Like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker.”*
Android-like humans reluctantly relinquish
destruction’s tools to Mother Nature
allow gushing winds, rolling thunder,
tropical waves, and hurricane vortexes
to hold court as forked rays illuminate
skies, reminding family, friends, and isolated
survivalists not who—but what—will endure
after a nuclear dawn, pandemic daylight,
apocryphal nightfall, or personal loss; alone,
loyal to my nightmare, I perpetually relive
my personal Ragnarök day every time I
awake without Carole, my love, beside me.
“The horror! The horror!”*
Sterling Warner
